


I, your winter

by pinksundays



Series: Patron of the Arts: Josephine [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Patron of the Arts, Pre-Inquisition, Romance, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23006509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksundays/pseuds/pinksundays
Summary: For once, Varric isn’t the storyteller. Accompanied by a warm fire and good liquor, he listens to a former bard recount her tragic tale of romance
Relationships: Josephine Montilyet/Original Character(s)
Series: Patron of the Arts: Josephine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643524
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	I, your winter

* * *

It took me awhile to regain my composure, and thankfully, Varric was ever the patient dwarf. As I closed my eyes and drew breath, every painful and… delightful memory came rushing up from the depths of my heart. Everything that I’ve locked away in shame and hurt since our final encounter.

‘His name was Lorenzo de Frìo of Seleny, and he was my first love,’ I repeated with a shaky voice. Feeling his name on my lips again... guilt blossomed fresh in my chest. ‘He was the youngest son of house De Frìo, and unfortunately, the only one to have been disowned.’

‘Disowned?’ Varric asked, intrigue in his voice. Yet, he did seem a little surprised. Perhaps disowned sons were not a common thing in the South. Plucking the empty bottle of _Antivan Sip-Sip_ off the floor, I began to examine it. Lovely in rust-coloured red, I ran my finger over the engraving where traditionally, a label should be. Lorenzo always hated the font his family chose for their business. Often, he would complain about how unnecessarily cursive it was. _The font makes it so much harder to read,_ he’d say.

‘His parents did not take well when he decided to pursue the Arts instead of dedicating his time to the family business.’ Holding out the rust-coloured bottle to Varric, he accepted it curiously. ‘They were vintners. A significant part of east Antiva was owned by the De Frìos, and being born into an esteemed wine-family meant only one thing: that you lived and died by the business. Everything you did was for the success of the family. Even if it meant doing… _questionable_ things, and hiring assassins to take out one’s competition.’

Varric handed the bottle back to me and I set it onto the tile beside my ankle. I turned back to our resident storyteller and twirled the twisted ends of my hair with my fingers, feeling slightly embarrassed that _I_ was the one doing the storytelling tonight. ‘But Lorenzo was _different_. It was like his heart beat to a different rhythm. He was probably the one good seed to be born into his whole line—like a lone snowdrop born into winter.’

Down below, something had clattered onto the stone floor. A warning yowl echoes up to the ceiling, followed by a hushed voice beckoning the cat off a table. In a strange way, it reminded me of the many hectic mornings in the grand hall during my life as a student. ‘Back then, I attended classes in the University of Olais—by mornings I did my studies like a dutiful student, but when dusk came sparkling on the waters in the fountains of the gardens, oh, I was worlds away from mere texts of philosophy, astronomy, and Thedosian histories.’

I stood, moving towards Madame de Fer’s small collection of books. One with a faded spine stood out, and I—recognising the book instantly by its shade of onyx leather—plucked it from the pile. It was a collection of poems native to Antiva, and I held it to my chest longingly. My own copy was lost years ago. ‘You could always find me sitting on the stone loveseat that was tucked in a corner of the gardens, almost hidden between two rose bushes with hedges that were as tall as I. I’d sit there until the winds grew cold into the night, reading stories of romance dipped in war and dusted with lovers of tragic circumstance. Of families thorned with curses until one of their youthful heirs decides to go on a grand adventure to best the very hand that cursed their line.’

Varric chuckled, taking me by the hand as I spun around him still with the book clutched to me. ‘Romantic tragedies with possible happy endings? Not gonna lie, Ruffles, I kind of pegged you for the sort.’

Returning to my seat, I placed the book on my lap and turned the pages to my favourite poem. ‘He… it’s funny. Coincidentally, Lorenzo had remarked something similar to me the first time we talked. I was drowning in an epic about a Goddess who fell in love with a mortal—a mere fisherman if I might add. He had visited her every day, and eventually confided in her about his love for sea nymph and begged the sorceress for a potion of love. But by then, the Goddess had already given him her heart, and—like a true woman scorned with jealousy—she acted as such. It was before I found out what happened, that my love made his presence known.’

>   
>  _Romantic tragedies with possible happy endings? Unsurprisingly, I did think you for the sort,_ I told her, using a rolled up scroll push against the book under the pretense of searching for the title. Of course, I already knew what she was reading. I just wanted an excuse to talk to the lovely young lady. When our eyes met, I was enthralled—drawn like a moth to the alluring gleam of the high moon. She retracted the book as if singed, making sure that the title was hidden from me. I am quite certain that I was lightly reprimanded by her—whatever the reason was, I did not know. I have only glanced at Josephine from afar—but now, it was as though I was looking at Antiva’s splendid summer itself. It was her voice that distracted me, too, but it was that very voice that demanded for my name that pulled me back to shore.
> 
> Cooly, I introduced myself and extended my hand for hers, half-hoping that she might swat it away and storm off. Least I knew that I may not have had a chance. Instead, there was a brief silence before she extended her genteel hand to allow me to kiss it.
> 
> And I did.

  
‘Oh, if butterflies could flutter against my skin again... that was how lips touched the back of my hand,’ I could feel the blush warming my cheeks despite our wintry fortress. My dwarven companion all but grinned, and I knew it was a silent beckon for more details.

‘I had been greeted by nobles before in such a manner, but never had I felt a spark jolt through my very existence. And it lingered there—for hours, for days, then weeks and months on ends. Worse, it had spread the more time we spent together. We bonded over many things very quickly—his love for music, my love for stories, his fascination for history, and my yearning for ancient tales and theories long lost. If love was a sickness, then I was most likely on death’s bed surrounded by lilies,’ I explained, feeling a kind of life within me that I had thought was lost. My heart was racing, and I sank into the soft cushions of Madame de Fer’s loveseat, almost buried by its furs and tassels.

‘Charmed into giddiness? I’ve seen that happen before. Hawke had that same look every time she talked about Rivaini,’ Varric let out another laugh, amused at how much I have allowed myself to be unravelled. I couldn’t imagine being caught like a lovesick child by Cullen, or Cassandra. Or worse, _Leliana_. She would _never_ let it go until the end of my days. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had it engraved onto my urn.

I sigh, blowing the hair out of my eyes. ‘As embarrassed as I am to admit it, yes. Lorenzo’s charm worked on me like the strongest love potion in all of Thedas would not. We became fast lovers—I’m sure you can tell—and he was too clever by half that it was infuriating yet... delightful at the same time,’ I recalled most of the sweeter memories we had. They felt like a song from eons ago. Chords which I hadn’t struck in _years_. But they were lyrics that never left—lyrics that stayed and never faded.

‘We would banter about trivial things—which ballads were the most tragic, which courts played The Game better, even which methods of subterfuge was more effective. But we’d also argue about… silly things. Which instrument he could play better, which bakery had tastier pasties, and… which flowers looked better in my hair.’ I spread my fingers on the poem under my hand. One about love, and loss, and eternal glory promised in the stars. Varric placed a hand on mine, and it was like I blinked back into existence. I had been pulled into the comforts of Time’s silky threads, lost in memories, I realised, then cleared my throat in recovery.

I stood again, urging the listening storyteller down the stairs as I painted an even grander picture of my love with memories alone, my voice echoing slightly against the walls. ‘Lorenzo was a bard of few words and he kept an icy distance from our classmates. He talked only when needed, and answered curtly and bluntly. Just like Winter, our classmates tried to ignore the cold—wishing it away as soon as it came. They didn’t understand him, or, didn’t have the time to. Lorenzo was thought to be an arrogant know-it-all whom our tutors favoured. It pained me that my friends were blind like many others to the beauty that came with winter, and they shunned it when they ought to have embraced it as they did the other seasons. They forget that underneath the white blanket of ice, lies lush green and warmth and life, waiting to bloom in spring.’

When we finally reached my office, he closed the door behind him, then placed himself comfortably by the fireplace, warming his hands. ‘Not gonna lie, he sounded like a misunderstood prince charming.’

I nodded, placing my goblet and empty bottle onto the desk. ‘That he was, and _so much_ more. Oh, Varric, I wish you could’ve seen how he gushed about the very ballads that touched his heart. Lorenzo was a man who told stories with his whole being from the depths of his soul!’

From a crystal jar in my drawer, I retrieved a key. One that belonged to a chest in the corner of my office. As it clicked, my heart fluttered, and I pulled out my old lute and turned to Varric whose eyes had now widened in delight. ‘Excited, he would leap onto a table as he reprised a song, hands wild with gestures. With a lute, he was a charmer, but with a lyre, my love shattered the hearts of many. When Lorenzo brought a song to its end, he would sweep back his dark hair and bow with such dignity and grace that clouds would part, revealing the bright sun that matched the colour of his eyes. The colour of Antivan sunsets all throughout the year.’

>   
>  And like sunlight, our classmates basked in her presence—in her intellect, grace, and enthusiasm. Like a pied piper, Josephine drew people to her with her melodious singing and clever words that shared that charming singing lilt. And in the mornings, her attention was always theirs.
> 
> But come nightfall, we always found time for each other—our rendezvous in the gardens when the last of the songbirds retreated to their nests. When the summer cicadas began to sing their songs, sometimes, joined by flickering dancing fireflies. Months passed, but our evenings were mostly spent like this. Her hand in mine, and my heart in hers.
> 
> And then came the end of our education, and…
> 
> T’was the year we parted.


End file.
